Page 152 of Hidden Nature

“You own an art gallery in town,” Sloan said.

“Yes. Those who can’t, sell. Or try to. On the phone you said you’re looking into Art’s disappearance, as it may connect with another missing person.”

“We want to explore every angle, Ms. Rigsby.”

“I spoke with Detective Trent, and with a Detective O’Hara. Detective Trent agreed it might help. To my ear, Detective O’Hara respects your input.”

She brought the coffee in on a tray, with a pitcher of cream.

“They believe Art’s dead,” she said flatly. “You do, too.”

“I can’t determine—”

“You don’t have to spare my feelings.” She set the tray down, added cream to both cups. “I know he’s dead.”

She sat, crossed her legs, sipped her coffee.

“At first I…” She paused, pressed her lips together as if blocking the words. “That hardly matters at this point. I understand now Art may have left me, but I can promise you, he’d never have left the children, the grandchildren, without a word. He wouldn’t have left his practice, our portfolio, and he’d have fought me for this house in the divorce.”

“You were divorcing?”

“No, but if he wasn’t dead, with my knowledge of his infidelity and deceit, we would be. And I’d take everything I could get.”

Ice-blue was her eye color, Sloan thought, but the hard frost in them was fury.

“Imagine being clueless, simply living your life, believing you had a solid marriage, a husband who loved and respected you. Then imagine the fear, the panic when he doesn’t come home, when you call the police. And the shock, the humiliation, the open wound when you learn he’d been with a woman half his age in a motel room. Cheating every week for months.”

Fury, yes, Sloan thought, and the grief that shadowed it.

“Lying to you, living with you, sleeping with you, and all the time…”

Once again, she pressed her lips together.

“We were married for thirty-four years, together for thirty-six. I helped him through dental school, helped him start his practice. In turn, he helped me when I wanted to open the gallery. Art supported me in that dream. We raised children together, welcomed grandchildren into our lives. And we loved them.”

She sipped her coffee, sighed once.

“We loved them,” she repeated. “We fought and laughed and worried and celebrated together, all that time.”

She took a long breath. “And in the end, he made a fool of me. He made a mockery of me and my life, and made himself into a pitiful cliché.”

Karen paused, leveled her gaze at Sloan.

“I don’t wish him dead. I want him, I desperately want him to walk through that door. So I can kick him out again.”

Sloan felt the cold fury, the drag of grief. And with it, heard the last notes of dying love.

“I know you’ve been asked before, but it’s possible when some time has passed to remember something that didn’t seem important or relevant. Did he ever make a comment, however offhand, that he felt someone followed him?”

“No, not to me. Maybe to the blonde, but not to me. He was happy,looking forward to Christmas, having the family all here, seeing the grandchildren open presents. We’d had our holiday party here the week before, and he still talked about what a good time it was.”

“You stated you’d never met the woman he was seeing.”

Sloan could all but see Karen Rigsby wrap dignity around her like a cloak.

“No, and I never intend to. She chose to have an affair with a married man, but Art made the choice to be that man.

“I’ve tried to pinpoint Wednesdays. He liked to cook on Wednesdays. I’d come home from work, and he’d have made dinner. We’d have a drink, talk about the day. We’d discuss what was going on in the world, what was going on in the family, and so on.”

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